(We've all got stuff that interrupts our fun. It doesn't make you weak...Wimp)
The nearest bar to my office is a shelled-out ruin. So is the second-nearest. So is the third, but it's still open for business. I may be tough, but drinking in an irradiated pile of rubble and human corpses is a little more grim than I'm up for right now. Number four is a winner. It's crowded, but nobody's killing each other. It's scummy, but the glasses are clean. And either nobody notices that I'm not human, or they don't bother making a point of it.
They don't have whiskey, though. Just overpriced Umojan beer, some local pisswater brew, and about a hundred varieties of gin. Alright, so "winner" was a bit much, but I can choke down some gin. I've got all kinds of parasitic gizmos in my belly. Surely one of them can make gin bearable.
The talk of the group sitting next to me is where Kingston went. God, this case is going to follow me everywhere, isn't it? The theories are pretty wild. Kingston flew his ship into the sun rather than let the Zerg have it. No, it was destroyed over Umoja. No, he left on a voyage for Earth, and he'll be back with a giant army at his back. No, that's stupid. He's at the secret ghost barracks, planning his revenge. No, the Zerg already have him...